


Sacred Fire

by cellist



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur is Cold, Camelot, Cuddling & Snuggling, Gen, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Merlin is Surprised, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Sharing a Bed, What Happens When It's Cold, Winter Solstice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:42:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28114074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellist/pseuds/cellist
Summary: In which a simple task like fetching a warm cup of mead on the winter solstice for Arthur ends up giving Merlin so much more than he bargained for, and a new law is decreed from the warmth of Arthur's bed…If you're looking for something soft and sweet to warm you up on a cold night, this is the story for you! With Merlin being slightly oblivious, and Arthur being as sarcastic as he always is, it's a sure combination to help get you warmed up.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 139





	Sacred Fire

Night comes to Camelot quickly in winter. In the summer, which feels so long ago, he can remember how the night was an absent visitor: always late, rushing in all at once, stealing the light but leaving a memory of heat behind.

Now, that is a distant memory. Winter’s night slinks along the corridors, pools in alcoves as bone-chilling shadows until it spills across the flagstones and under doorways. The only true heat in all the castle is to be found in the kitchens; a place that he has just left behind, the small tankard in his hand his only source of warmth to stave off the cold.

The days are shorter now. Far too short for him to even remember what it was like to wake to the sun blinking through his window, to have it chase him on his back as he made his way about the castle.

Now the nights are long. The only difference between one and the next is the temperature, which gradually falls as the solstice approaches. Within the castle he can feel the anticipation, the trepidation that the turning of the year brings with it. Uther may have outlawed magic, he may persecute and execute all who have even the most tenuous link with it, but there are certain events even he cannot hope to control. With his free hand he rubs at his arm, trying to stave off the icy air creeping under his clothing and catches sight of yet another sprig of Mistletoe fastened above the archway. No, there are some things Uther is simply destined to fail at. Eradicating this small Druidic practice seems to be one of them.

Smiling to himself he ducks through and continues on his way, eyes half fascinated with the way his breath plumes and puffs as he picks up his pace and half on where he is going. So, it’s not surprising that he stumbles on an unexpected, and yet anticipated step. He manages to save his face from meeting the cold, unyielding stone, but not his knees and they hit the floor hard enough to make him cry out. At the last second, he remembers the drink cupped in his hand, sees it begin its seemingly predestined descent to the stone below and without thinking or feeling, time freezes. It stretches around him, eternal and suspended as he catches the tankard as if in slow motion, even the pain from his knees slowing to a dull throb as he manages to wrap his fingers around the lukewarm metal and right it at the same time.

A sigh escapes him as time snaps back into place, a single crimson drop spilling from the lip of the tankard to splash on the stonework below. Muttering some rather colourful words that have nothing to do with magic and everything to do with spending far too long around Arthur’s knights, he gingerly climbs back to his feet, only too aware of the amount of time he’s taken on such a simple errand. The drink is nearly cool.

For a second, he contemplates heating it magically, but quickly pushes the idea away. It’s a small piece of magic he’s learnt to master recently, but that still doesn’t mean he’s entirely at home performing it – nor does it mean he gets the right result each time. The last thing he wants is to try and explain to Arthur why his tankard is melted into an incomprehensible mess. Somehow, he knows ‘oops’ won’t quite cover it this time.

He manages to navigate the rest of the steps without incident, nodding to the patrol as he passes them along Arthur’s corridor. They look frozen, even more so than he does, and for an instant he realises that maybe putting up with Arthur’s pigheadedness is a small price to pay; destiny notwithstanding.

Taking a breath in, he pushes the door open, sliding inside and closing it again swiftly, desperately trying to contain what meagre heat the fire is producing. Arthur’s nowhere to be seen. The table is clear, his jacket slung carelessly across the back of the chair, and the swords he was inspecting have been placed carefully away. Blinking, he lets his eyes rove around the space before him until a sharp cough breaks his reverie.

“And exactly where did you go to get that?” Despite the cold, Arthur’s laconic tone still sends a wave of heat through him and he starts, grip tightening on the tankard as his head whirls towards Arthur’s bed.

“The kitchens, like you asked.” The heavy drapes are completely closed and at first he can’t understand how Arthur knew it was him standing there. Not only that, but that he was actually carrying anything at all. Then he catches sight of the slightest crack, a glow slipping through the gloom.

“Would that be via some unknown kingdom, then?” The barest twitch of fabric tells him of Arthur’s position; the fire flickering across the material hypnotically. He doesn’t answer, instead stepping forward and extending his arm as if to show the faceless bed what he’s brought. “You’ll have to open the bloody drapes to be able to give me that, won’t you?”

He leaves a beat, his eyes threatening to roll upwards of their own accord, but still too aware of being watched to allow him to slip. Taking the last step forward he reaches out with his free hand, twitching aside the nearest drape.

He sees Arthur straight away. Or more to the point, he sees an Arthur shaped bundle, reassuringly solid and vital in the middle of the bed. As the drape moves, more light spills inside, catching on honeyed strands that have seemed the brightest thing at this end of the dying of the year.

“Well don’t just stand there, come around to the side!” Of course, that effect is ruined completely as soon as Arthur opens his mouth. The thought makes him smile, secretively to himself as he fulfils the order. Arthur’s hand is already appearing at the join as he stops, fingers tinged with pink despite the far below freezing temperatures. Even the fire doesn’t keep the entire cold out – it’s stubborn and intrusive, much like Arthur himself – and it makes its presence known everywhere. Somehow, though, he knows that even the almighty winter would think twice about chilling Princely bones, the vague waft of warm air that manages to cover the distance between the drapes and where he waits attests to that, as Arthur opens them slightly further and snatches at the tankard.

“It’s got a little-” His explanation is lost under a grunt of outrage, half gurgled out.

“It’s _stone cold_ , Merlin. Where on Earth did you take it? For a tour of the castle?” The words are accompanied by Arthur’s face appearing between the drapes, shortly followed by a hand snaking out. His shirt is snagged in a vice-like grip and abruptly he finds himself dragged underneath the heavy fabric and into a shadowy world. He blinks, slowly, this sudden descent into darkness wholly unexpected. Beneath the drapes the cold night is as far away as warm summer and yet close enough to touch; as close to him as Arthur is, far too vital and unyielding.

In fact, he might be tempted to enjoy this far too much, particularly as his eyes gradually grow accustomed to the half-light. The fire’s glow is muted here, the dark red of the heavy drapes tinting everything with scarlet shadows, everything, apart from Arthur. The Prince’s face is lightly flushed, eyes clear and bright. He feels his own eyes drawn to the paleness of Arthur’s nightgown, the same nightgown that slides so effortlessly along the body that he has both dressed and undressed far too many times to count. Here, the cold holds no dominion, places no demands and receives no surrender. Outside it may well be a burning mid-summer eve, or the snow that has been threatening for days may well have fallen in cataclysmic amounts. Here, in this cloistered world, he can’t bring himself to care. Nor even to worry that he is _staring_ , that he is doing the very thing he has constantly warned himself against; _he is weakening_.

As the moment continues, he notices Arthur’s eyes narrow, gaze dropping to the remnants of supposedly warm mead before rising once more, searching his eyes intently. The hand that had seized his shirt has fallen to his sleeve and as it tightens on his cuff, he can’t stop the small gasp that is released. Nor can he stop the implication it makes spark to life in his mind. Apparently, this is all that’s needed as Arthur drops his wrist as if burnt, and twists away, shoving the tankard blindly in his direction.

“About as much use as...as...” He finds himself smirking as Arthur flounders and it is this expression that Arthur catches, blue eyes flashing in the flickering firelight momentarily. Then, rather disconcertingly, they clear and possibly it’s this fact that unnerves him the most. Or perhaps it is the way that Arthur pointedly refuses to comment or berate him. Instead, he is left to watch as Arthur rearranges the furs that have slipped southwards, and then the pointed way that Arthur throws himself down upon the pillows.

“Uh...” He starts, not entirely sure how to finish the half-formed word. Should he leave? Retreat whilst any thoughts of recrimination or revenge are far from Arthur’s mind? Or stay and risk his petty wrath? Shuffling his feet where he kneels, he accidentally brushes against the drape, his shoulder and hand slipping through the gap and encountering the veritably _frosty_ air just outside this haven.

Better to bide his time, he decides, rather than freeze to death on the seemingly endless walk back to Gaius’s rooms and an even colder bed.

“What _are_ you doing, Merlin?” The voice is laced with an emotion that he knows isn’t really there. It’s simply the fact that he is, to all intents and purposes, _sharing Arthur’s bed_ , or at least the heat from it, that is making him hear things that have no place in their normal relationship.

“I thought you might need me...for...something...” As soon as the words fall from his lips, he braces himself for the ridicule that’s sure to follow. Arthur’s in bed, about to sleep. What on earth would he still need him for? But even as he watches Arthur look at him pointedly, even as he smiles in what he hopes is his most disarming way in return, (but knows, instead, that he looks more of an idiot than ever before), there’s something different to Arthur’s expression, something that he’s never seen there in the past.

“It’s late, Merlin. I want to try and get some sleep. Just _what_ do you expect me to need?” Curiosity stains Arthur’s voice. Ducking his head, he rubs his feet together restlessly – the difference between what he _thinks_ Arthur will need, and what he _wants_ him to need are two entirely separate entities.

“Maybe I was just trying to steal some heat before I left?” The suggestion is more truth than lie, peppered with a longing that he is desperate not to allow to take hold. This is not who they are, or, more to the point, it is not who he can _allow_ them to be.

Not if he is destined to watch Arthur continually place himself in harm’s way for Camelot, because, if he’s truly honest, that is who Arthur _is_ – and to stop that, would be equivalent to attempting to prevent the sun from rising. It would strip Arthur of the very thing that sets him apart and above everyone else he has ever known; a fact that he really doesn’t want to admit to anyone, least of all Arthur, just yet.

It’s only as Arthur shifts, the furs glistening in the low light from outside, that he realises there has been no answer to his admission. No derogatory put down. No order to remove himself forthwith. Instead, there is the same thoughtful expression gracing Arthur’s features, a look so unlike his usual one of disdain for everything that isn’t of interest, that he finds himself meeting those blue eyes, tinged with the fire’s glow with a touch of trepidation.

“Arthur?” he hazards, his instincts telling him that for some reason etiquette no longer applies here, if it ever did. At his voice, Arthur visibly flinches, as if pulled from a waking dream.

“You’re letting the cold air in.” The statement is at odds with the softness to Arthur’s gaze and he glances behind himself, noting the drapes are still ajar. Looking back, he bites his lip, suddenly more unsure than he ever has been around this man.

“I’ll close them behind me as I leave...” He half turns away but stills with one hand grasping the edge of the fabric. “If that’s what you want?”

There are certain things that once said, can never be unsaid. As soon as the question falls from his lips, he knows this is something they will both remember, but probably for differing reasons. He will remember, and commit to memory, the sight of Arthur’s mouth parting, unsurely, the words that are usually his allies suddenly retreating. He is fairly sure that Arthur, too, will remember the look of fear he knows is on his face, the abrupt and terrifying realisation that he has just said the thought aloud and that it can’t be taken back, or brushed aside.

“No,” the word is choked out, Arthur’s throat sounding thick and clogged to his ears, almost as if he hasn’t used it for months, let alone minutes, but they both know the word isn’t enough.

“No, what, Arthur?” He has to clarify it, has to hear it fall from Arthur’s lips, because if he doesn’t, then he must leave – and yet another moment will have passed between them without ever being acknowledged.

“You know _what_ , Merlin.” There’s a beat, a stretched pause where Arthur holds his gaze and he refuses to back down, refuses to act the indentured servant and bow his head, instead meeting Arthur head on; the gauntlet laid down between them. “And you know I can’t say it aloud.” There’s no way he imagines the edge of betrayal that stains Arthur’s voice, nor the truth that lies at the heart of those words. He nods, once, with a conviction that might scare him in the morning, but here, now, screams only of acceptance. It’s a notion that Arthur seems willing to take on face value and without the usual challenge that sometimes so defines their every interaction.

“So.” He looks down at the furs, at the rich coverings that he’s had the displeasure of changing and cleaning day after day, and then at Arthur, whose face has an expression of docile interest painted upon it. “What are you _not_ wanting?” The inflection isn’t lost and Arthur smiles, lips twitching at the corners.

“I’m definitely not looking for my supposed manservant to help warm the freezing parts of this bed up by agreeing to share it with me.” Arthur’s eyes dip closed as he speaks, as if trying to distance thought from act, but only succeeds in distracting _him_ from the fact that Arthur is slowly lifting the edge of the covers.

“So, if you’re definitely not looking for that, then I won’t be agreeing to doing it, then, will I?” For a second he debates exactly how not to go about this, but then he makes the conscious decision to simply _stop thinking_ and as soon as he does, the whole situation immediately becomes unaccountably easier to cope with.

“I suppose not,” Arthur mutters, still watching as he begins to slip his jacket off, allowing it to fall down his arms until his hands catch it. “You know, for someone usually quite awkward, you have moments of unparalleled grace.”

“Careful, that was suspiciously close to a compliment,” he lays the jacket carefully at the bottom of the bed, deft fingers making short work of pulling his neck scarf off to join it, “and that just wouldn’t be proper, would it?” Arthur starts; catches himself; begins again.

“About as proper as my servant,” he coughs and Arthur scrunches up his nose as if in distaste at the interruption, “ _not_ sharing my bed; an offer that is rapidly being withdrawn if he doesn’t _move_ himself and stop all this cold air cooling my sheets.” As Arthur’s voice drones on, the gently teasing tone matching his previous one perfectly, he perches on the edge of the aforementioned bed and shucks his boots off, infuriatingly slowly. From behind him he hears a muttered ‘ _finally_ ’, and then the bed jostles and dips as Arthur moves around. Pausing he debates whether to strip further, but decides against it. The night has been eventful enough, without him trying to push boundaries far past where they are supposed to be.

He does settle for loosening the ties on his shirt, though, before twisting around and sliding his feet under the heavy covers. Arthur has rolled away from him, presenting him with the sight of Arthur’s back and shoulder, a mop of honey coloured straw against the pale greyness of the pillow.

“Arthur...” The unvoiced question dies before he knows what he was going to say, but it doesn’t seem to matter as Arthur turns slightly, firelight catching the strong profile.

“Lie down, Merlin. Try not to think too hard, you’ll keep me awake.” Following the suggestion, he gingerly lays back against soft pillows and mattress; the covers pressing him down, cosseting him warmly. He can feel Arthur’s heat filling the void between them and has the irrepressible urge to try and soak up as much of that warmth as he is permitted to. “You know, the whole idea was to share body heat. Something tells me that will only work if our bodies are _touching_.” Arthur’s voice makes him physically flinch, the proximity, the way it rumbles and vibrates along the mattress and into him; all of it makes him feel as if the fire outside is a mere illusion. _Here_ is where the real fire is, the real heat burning through him in a dizzying rush.

“You mean-”

“I mean, even you aren’t dim enough to not know that, Merlin.” Twisting, Arthur looks at him steadily and far too knowingly. “Despite what you may like to have me believe.” There must still be some doubt showing through on his face, because Arthur shifts around more, body contorted awkwardly. “Look at it this way; it’s the solstice, the longest night – during which no one cares much what goes on, and in comparison to what _could_ be happening, I think sharing my bed with my servant,” the briefest of hesitations, “with a friend, hardly warrants mentioning, yes?” He nods dumbly in reply, and then shifts onto his side, facing Arthur as he smiles, an echoing one appearing on the Prince’s features. “Good. Besides, you’re fulfilling a duty – keeping me warm.” And with a glint in Arthur’s eye that he knows he has never seen there before, Arthur turns away, resuming his earlier position.

This, then, leaves him with a dilemma.

Does he simply take Arthur at his word, and allow those rather tamer thoughts he’s had of them together, _in bed_ , to come to the fore – acting purely off his own back; or does he wait, or ask, for Arthur to tell him what to do?

“For God’s sake, Merlin, come _here_!”

Or, alternatively, and like so many times before, he could exasperate Arthur to such a degree that he takes matters into his own hands.

As Arthur’s hand reaches blindly for him, clutching at any part of his body that it can reach, he’s dimly aware that he should be more shocked by this turn of events than he really is. His arm snakes around Arthur’s waist far too naturally, his legs brushing against the naked skin of Arthur’s calves comfortably. There’s the barest hiss at how cold his clothes are, but then Arthur settles once more, one hand lightly resting over his, Arthur’s soft nightgown a stark counterpoint to the hard muscles beneath.

He realises that he’s still staring, gazing in something fast approaching bewildered wonder at the sight of their bodies so close, hardly any air between them at all, especially under the covers. Propping his head upon his free hand, he smiles to himself, watching Arthur’s eyes drooping closed in drowsy bliss.

“Arthur...” A grunt is his only reply, but the slight tensing of the hand over his tells him that Arthur is indeed listening. “You know I don’t quite remember your father telling me snuggling was one of my royal duties.” He can’t help the glee in his voice, nor the growing heat that’s suffusing his limbs, a heat that grows tenfold as he watches Arthur smile, sleepily.

“Ah, his error; it’s a very ancient and long held tradition, or at least it is now.” Arthur’s voice slowly trails away, body becoming lax and peaceful. “First thing I’ll decree when I’m King. Everyone must have a servant like you to keep them warm at night.” He can barely hear the last words, lost on a long exhalation but as he deciphers them, he shakes his head, fondly.

He’s not entirely certain what Arthur has inadvertently revealed tonight, not sure what this random occurrence will mean when they wake, but for now he accepts what Arthur is saying as law.

Settling himself down behind his Prince, he closes the last breath between them, curling his free hand around Arthur’s head, fingers idly stroking the golden strands he can reach. On a whim, relying on nothing more than instinct, he presses a chaste kiss to the nape of Arthur’s neck, feeling, more than hearing, the sigh it engenders.

 _This_ , he thinks, _is where I belong_.

And as sleep gradually creeps upon him, he allows it to steal him away; secure in the knowledge that around him, Camelot is tall and strong, and in his arms his Prince sleeps, safe and content, the bitter cold held at bay.

**Author's Note:**

> And I imagine when they wake up in the morning Arthur is at first a bit awkward, then blustery, and Merlin escapes quickly, but then later he calls him back and is quite shy about asking Merlin to share his bed again. To which Merlin, because he can be a little shit, simply says that 'it's the law', and jumps in before Arthur can even blink.


End file.
